An Interest in the Science of Fear
by schizometriclanguage
Summary: Jonathan Crane discovers a certain delight in not only studying fear, but instigating it. Pre-Batman Begins, touchstones to the comics.


It was nothing unusual to be standing in the middle of the dilapidated church, alone, waiting for the shadows to fold overtop him. Peering around hesitantly, he saw nothing, but the chill, dead air made goose-flesh raise on his skin anyways. For a such a large city, it was some small wonder that he was hardly ever interrupted in his fear, no one walking in and letting the light flood in from the outside, or even to ask why he was there. No one ever asked anything about him.

A rustling in the corner sent his body into a shudder.

"Just…breathe," he reminded himself. But it was too late; every movement looked like the crows now. Like the rest of the city, they seemed to be driven mad, though their reason was a simply primal hunger. In truth though, that was exactly why the city was going mad too, even at his age, Jonathan knew it. He saw hunger everywhere for simple things and for things born of insatiable greed. It was so obvious; it was so dull. He was lucky, in a sense, with that intelligence propelling him through the schools more and keeping him away from those hungers. His only hunger was for knowledge.

Two more years, and he'd be finished high school at the tender age of fourteen; and then he'd have no reason to live with his great-grandmother and the madness she held onto that compelled her to lock him in here for 'prayer', to practice 'faith'. He didn't hate her though. She was off her rocker. He only hated this, hated the conditioning to the fear that he knew was entirely irrational. It was only the product of an over-active imagination (that he could normally be proud of) in a environment where his senses were obscured and forced to try and compensate for the one another's failure. It was confusion. It was all in his head.

Looking up to the ceiling, he saw the old wooden rafters and torn electrical wirings; the windows were blacked out for the most part, and stained glass art painted over in a thick lacquer. There was one hole in the roof though, were some of the setting sun's light shone through. He wondered if the birds saw it too, wondered why they didn't try to get out through there. If he could fly, he'd definitely had already made a go for the opening.

"_Here I am, little jumping Joan," _he recited to the spot of light, _"When nobody's with me, I'm all alone."_

Another noise in the corner cut off his breath again and his hands closed so tight that his nails were cutting into his palms. It wasn't the dark he was afraid of, it was what hid in the dark, he tried to reason. What was his head, he amended. There was nothing in the dark. He tried another rhyme, a longer one, closing his eyes and seeing the words in his mind,

"_Little Jack Horner, sat in a corner…"_

He was glad that he'd taken the time to memorize so many nursery rhymes for this purpose. Saying them aloud almost made it impossible to hear everything that actually sulked around in the dark and helped lessen the wild imaginings he'd used to fill the spaces where they didn't.

* * *

Because he was technically graduating, he was permitted to attend the high school prom. In truth, he couldn't care less about the dancing, or the conquest of having the prettiest girl for a date, or arriving in a stretched limo with a bunch of dunderheaded friends that he didn't' have. They were poltroons, all of them.

However, that didn't change how he felt about the prettiest girl in the school. And she was pretty; curly red hair, green eyes, and nearly as tall as himself which was saying something. But that wasn't what he liked about her. He liked the little smile she got when she was playing with words with her 'friends'. She didn't need their camaraderie though, instead gathering them like moths to a streetlamp in the darkest part of the Narrows, deciding who to draw in close enough to burn and who to keep at a distance enough so that they fell within her allegiance. It was a game for her. He'd seen her draw in people, and as she stood from the sidelines watch them as the others tore them down. She always escaped, reputation unscathed.

In short, he liked her for who no one else knew, or could imagine, that she was. If he could get her to go to the prom with him, he'd have a change to pick her apart and reveal her for who she was, she how she reacted, find out what made her scared. So it was a in the spirit of conquest, in a sense, but it wasn't about her being pretty, and it wasn't about anyone else knowing. It was about testing his words to see if he'd mastered them well enough to make her _squirm._

Her name was Sherry Squires, and Jonathan wanted to take her to the prom; so, he asked her. It wasn't even overly ambitious really, seeing as she wasn't one of the girls from his classes who would have said no because of his age. They were equals, he felt, both using the people around them for their own purposes.

The flat-out rejection would have been efficient, polite, and the end of it until he could find another way to corner her with trust and a purpose to cover the real intent. But instead, she'd sneered at him, her soft mouth distorted with disgust.

"Why would I go to the prom with a bookworm scarecrow like you?" she asked. _Then_, it was the end of it. Kids can be so cruel, he thought. But it wasn't the end, it was only the end that she knew. The real ending would come four years later.

It wasn't so far a stretch for Jonathan, who'd already recently revenged over his great-grandmother, to imagine of means of disposal for the girl who'd used the nickname he loathed to reject him. She'd made herself special now, and special people made for interesting study. There was only so much that mental patients had to offer him as he finished his schooling at the University.

In the haunted looking space that his great-grandmother's will had left him (the police had no idea he'd sped the process along a bit) it struck him. _Scarecrow._ He'd show her just who the name was summoning. And he had just the thing, a little something he'd studied on a tangent, a certain compound he'd read about that seemed to fit his purpose quite well.

The night of the grand send off, he talked his way into the limo, sweet as can be, insisting that it'd be in the man's greater interest to co-operate. He explained the effects of the toxins hidden in his jacket and…well, the wife wouldn't be too happy with the end result, even if he survived. In the sleeve of his jacket he could feel the cold metal against his forearm. Scarecrow's arm. Scarecrow's face, too, he thought, fiddling at the thick noose around his neck, leaning back comfortably into the seat.

"Top dollar ride, this," Jonathan remarked. He had to speak louder than usual in the mask, and he'd rigged it to distort his voice as a precaution. The driver tensed, shoulders going tight was he hunched over the wheel even though Jonathan had already promised that he'd only be put to sleep. So long as he didn't cause trouble.

They picked up Squires's date first, the tie at his throat looking ridiculous around the boys thick neck. Someone from the wrestling team when he'd gone to the school. though he hadn't looked at all like this then, Jonathan noted, taking in the well developed muscles. It took him a moment to recall the name; he seemed to recall something large and five fingered propelled into his face and having to replace his glasses after it and it led to the name "Bo Griggs". He'd have to be careful to get him first, as a precaution. As for suspicions to the extra passenger in the limo, there were none. Behind him, through the sliding glass, Jonathan could hear the giant fiddle with the dials on the stereo, knocking over a delicate glass in the process. He apologized, but the already agitated driver only gritted his teeth and promised to clean it up just after they got the girl.

It all seemed too perfect; it didn't bother him. He'd planned it after all, finding which company would be transporting the little girl to _her_ prom (it was undoubtedly to be _her _coronation after all), and the way he'd so successfully frightened the driver into believing him, which too, had taken some background checks to make sure that he didn't muck-up any obvious information. He needed the driver to cooperate; Jonathan himself couldn't drive on his own yet; that'd have to wait a few more months when he finished his lessons and he wasn't going to risk some amateur driver's mistake and attract the attention of the police. He couldn't parallel park worth a damn, and he wouldn't let that be the thing to undo his plans.

They drew up to her house, and Jonathan had to resist a scoff. Suburbs; nothing special. The simple box-like structure with it's vinyl siding looked new, but it was not the brick and mortar manors of the rich and famous on the outskirts of Gotham. There was no blue blood to her name, despite all her well played actions to lead others to think as much. He'd suspected as much, had planned to use it against her in his little experiment. Oh well. He felt the dark joy cloud over his heart and checked himself to make sure that he wasn't getting overexcited and daft. He wasn't he found, even as his heart beat began to skip beats in happy palpitations.

Squires approached the car, bright green dress looking like moulded wedding cake. But perhaps his view was somewhat biased; in truth, she was a pretty as the last time he'd seen her and he made the correction, noting her ease so that he could calculate properly how quickly she descended into fear. Griggs stepped out, to open the door for her and warn her about the glass.

She got in, quickly falling into her role as the simpering girlfriend, casting out lines for compliments and adjusting her dress in provocative gestures meant to drive the boy beside her mad. She didn't notice her old school mate in the front passenger seat either. The driver drove a few blocks and spotted a garbage bin and pulled over to collect up the glass the hulking buffoon had knocked over. As he exited and closed the door behind him, Jonathan followed suit, but clamped a cloth saturated with chemicals to put the man to sleep. They still didn't notice, too caught up in their pretended worries over who would be at the prom, what they'd be wearing, what care they'd show up in.

Jonathan walked round and opened the door into the back, hitting the button he held in his thumb to send a jet of mist into Griggs face. It took a moment before the shouting to begin, another few for his eyes to start rolling into the back of his head. The solution had been so concentrated, Jonathan knew that he wouldn't come out of it for quite a while. He almost felt sorry for him, getting drawn into this little experiment, but Jonathan caught himself, remembering the bullying he'd gone through with him and his little subordinates.

Squires cowered, threatening to scream for help.

"Go for it," Jonathan encouraged pleasantly.

"Who are you?" she spat, drawing up her dress to press over her legs like shrink wrap.

"I'm not going to rape you," Jonathan sighed wearily, rolling his eyes inside his mask. Maybe he'd been wrong in ever thinking that she was interesting if that's the best that she could imagine. Although her apathy to the boy rolling in the glass he'd knocked over early in a fit was intriguing. She was one of the people who got selfish when she was frightened.

"Who are you," she demanded again, anger making her eyes bulge. She didn't look so pretty like that, despite all the finery she'd covered herself in.

"_Little Miss Muffet, sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey…"_

"What?"

"Musing aloud."

"What do you mean?"

Jonathan ignored her, the retching sounds behind him the only noise in the vehicle.

"You know, I never liked the name 'scarecrow' before."

She remained silent mind obviously trying to figure out who he was. The perspiration was beginning to ruin her make-up. The radio advertised something about Wayne enterprises on the business news. Seems that the heir went missing after a charade at the court house. But right now, the look of defiant terror on Squire's face was far more interesting than some spoiled rich brat's disappointment about the legal system. Vaguely, Jonathan wondered where the man thought justice lived in a city like Gotham, especially when it was so easy to put out three people all in one go without a single mishap just as he was doing now. Redirecting his full attentions to Squire again he continued,

"But, I don't know, dressing up like this has been fun so far. It's like Hallowe'en. You know why people used to dress up Hallowe'en? It wasn't for candy. It was to scare away bad spirits."

He took the empty space beside her and swung an arm over her shoulder, drawing out the event with a giddiness he hadn't ever had the pleasure of experiencing before. She recoiled underneath him, but he gripped her outside shoulder and shoved her against him and kept her there.

"It's a lot more interesting than that penguin suit down there, don't you think?"

"Get _the fuck_ away from me, _freak," _she hissed lowly, making another struggle to get away. He tightened his grip.

"_I'll scream."_

"I've already said that you were quite welcome to. Now, see that fine fellow down there? What do you think he's seeing?"

She was refusing to play along. But that was fine, he was having plenty of fun on his own.

"Well, I'll tell you. See, that gas I sprayed him with? Chock full of hallucinogens. I mean, it was all rather complicated to decide how to put it together for maximum effect, you know, I manage pretty good with things like that. A special interest, if you will, in the science of fear. So right now, he," Jonathan thrust a finger to point at the young man writhing on the floor for emphasis, "is currently experiencing _the worst_ trip he'll ever have in his life. Every fear he's ever had, or maybe just his worst fear. I don't know, I haven't tried it for myself and he doesn't really seem fit for talking. This a bit of trial run, see? The mixture is actually still pretty crude, so that, there, him? That's not exactly how imagine this to be working in the future. I _need_ them to be able to talk, for research purposes."

"You're crazy," she said, shutting her eyes. He took mental notes of her reactions and created more things to react to; to assure he that she wasn't dreaming, he let go of her shoulder and turned her face roughly to his, and her eyes snapped back open. Her pupils had dilated now; she was petrified. But it'd get worse.

"You know about fear, don't you? You use it to keep people close to you, I've seen it."

"I don't know what your talking about!"

"You do, but that's not why I'm here. You want to see a different kind of fear? Not the mundane social reputation method you specialize in, I mean real fear. _Terror._"

She didn't have time to tell him or if she was he wasn't listening because he was dragging her out of the car to the drivers seat, taping her hands to the steering wheel. Reaching over to his messenger bag, he pulled out a piece of metal and a drill. Her eyes darted and she began thrusting her head against the wheel. Yes, that was exactly what he was looking for, the _irrational panic._

"Now, the dose I'm going to give you," he explained over her screams, "isn't going to be enough to kill you and it wasn't enough to kill him, either. I'll leave that part to you."

He bent over, thrusting the billowing dress out of his way and worked on drilling the screws into the bottom of the floor, her foot trapped underneath it and pressing on the gas. Checking the fastening, he wrung her ankle roughly, and satisfied, stood and rested his arms on the top of the car and peered in.

"Alright, so this is good-bye then. You've been a wonderful subject."

She was quickly engulfed by the thick white gas that shot out of his sleeve. It was only a moment of pause before she started to _see._ Satisfied, he turned the ignition and shut the door. He took a hop backwards to avoid getting hit by the long vehicle, but was clipped on the shins by the tail end of it. He let out a sharp cry of pain, but settled back onto the pavement to watch instead of inspecting the damage. It wasn't so severe, from what he could tell.

Watching the limo drive away, swerving violently, he imagined her trying to sort out reality from fear. Even if it meant his original little research project had lost it's subject, he's certainly adapted it into a more interesting experiment. The fact that they were too frightened to talk was a problem though. He hadn't learned anything about what they'd seen, though he assumed that he could accurately imagine; but that wasn't good enough.

_This is the real ending to that story, _he thought mildly, already trying to think of a way so that anyone he dosed could talk to him coherently enough so that he could at least know what they were frightened of. A voice that hinted to a certain instability even to him snaked out of his throat like silver in a cruel, delighted coolness to add the finishing touch,

"_Along came a spider and sat down beside her…"_

The limo swerved violently, the sounding of metal on metal making his mouth twitch as it brushed up against a passing semi. He pulled at the noose with one hand and used the other to pull the burlap off with it's gasmask carefully so that he didn't cause any further damage to himself. For all the things that could have gone wrong, he thought, a few minor injuries weren't so bad. In the distance, the limo gave one more swerve and then collided with something fatal; a brick wall.

"…_and frightened Miss Muffet away."_

Jonathan reached over to his messenger bag and filled it with the evidence of his experiment, stowing away the mask and the device he'd rigged into his jacket. He stood, lurching forwards a bit, forgetting about the pain in his shins for a moments and went to gather the drill. With a last look to the driver laying unconscious on the ground, he smirked for a moment, savouring the execution of his plan and then went round to a bar a few blocks away doing his best not to limp too badly.

He took his seat, ordered a soda (he didn't want any details to go foggy) and pulled out a notebook to start recording his assessment of what he'd seen. He had to pause and pull out his glasses.

Thinking on it, he wasn't sure if she'd ever figured out who he was.


End file.
